


the light that sits at the bottom of your chest

by twilightstargazer



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Comfort, F/M, Mild Angst, Nightmares, Season 4 Spoilers, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 16:17:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8851648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightstargazer/pseuds/twilightstargazer
Summary: When it lands on her shoulder, she turns, ever so slowly and he stumbles back.There are boils all over her face, radiation causing the skin to bubble and melt, leaving it raw and angry in some places. One of her eyes is milky white and scarred, obviously blinded, and the other stares unseeing straight at him.or, the trailer broke me in a million pieces.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i love being dead
> 
> (warnings: kinda explicit descriptions of radiation poisoning and a very lightly glossed over mention of suicidal ideation)

There’s a total of twenty seven metal slabs that make up his room.

Twenty seven slabs, three hundred and forty two rivets holding them in place, a part of the ceiling that looks like a horse where the paint has flaked off.

Bellamy has memorised it all, night after night when he lies awake in his bed. Sleep is hard, has always been hard for him. On the Ark he didn’t know how to shut down for longer than an hour, every creak and groan of the old spacecraft sent him jerking awake, thinking of surprise inspections, thinking of his mother and Octavia, limbs askew in their too small bed.

Sleep was even harder when they came down on the ground, always one eye open for the next threat, the next enemy who waited around the corner, teeth bared and ready to kill.

And now… well, now sleep isn’t even option. Even with the pseudo peace they’ve achieved.

It’s why he counts the slabs and makes notes of the rivets. It’s easier to stay awake, easier to lie there in darkness and stay up into nothingness than fall asleep.

He’s good at faking it, is almost a pro at running on maybe a combined hour of rest. The only one who reacts to the purple bags under his eyes is Clarke, always with a pinched look and furrowed, ready to say something before he distracts her with something or the other.

Because when he does sleep, he’s plagued with nightmares, images of those he’s killed, watching the light go out in their eyes as blood stains his hands, his sister’s anguished, heart wrenching scream, his friends, dead and beaten and broken, cast aside in pieces while he stands amongst the rubble, a single bullet left in the chamber of his gun. It’s different all the time, but the centre of it is the same: death and despair and destruction, where he’s at fault for it all.

(Sometimes he thinks that he deserves it, his own personal punishment picked out by Hades himself, doomed for all eternity.)

_ He’s walking in the med bay, nothing but harsh fluorescent lighting and cold metal tables. The smell of antiseptic burns his nose, and he wants to choke. His footsteps echo off of the sterile white walls and for a moment there’s nothing but the sound of his breathing, harsh and heavy. _

_ Immediately he knows it’s a dream- the med bay is never this empty, never this quiet and clean. Ever since Raven fixed an old record player they scavenged parts for, Abby always has some swing music playing softly in the background. _

_ At the other end of the room there’s a figure standing beneath one of the flickering lights, half shrouded in darkness. He squints at it, trying to decipher just who it was this time, when he catches a glimpse of blonde hair and his heart leaps into his throat. _

_ He doesn’t remember his feet moving- doesn’t know if they even did to be honest- but he’s standing right behind her, hand hovering in the space between them. _

_ “Clarke?” he asks, and his voices cracks with it. _

_ She gives no indication of hearing him. His hand trembles in the air. _

_ When it lands on her shoulder, she turns, ever so slowly and he stumbles back. _

_ There are boils all over her face, radiation causing the skin to bubble and melt, leaving it raw and angry in some places. One of her eyes is milky white and scarred, obviously blinded, and the other stares unseeing straight at him. _

_ “Bellamy?” she croaks, and her voice is nothing but a whisper of wind, paper thin and crumbling. She falls to her knees, coughing up blood and he lurches forward to catch her. _

_ “No, no, no, no,” he mutters, using shaking hands to gently brush her hair out of her face, “No, Clarke, don’t do this to me. We can save you, you hear me? We can- we can help you, just please don’t do this.” _

_ She continues to hack, more blood dribbling down her chin and the burns seem to spread, covering her arms and legs, and her skin cracks in places. _

_ “I’m sorry,” she manages to rasp out and it’s like he can’t breath anymore. _

_ “Clarke? Clarke!” he says, shaking her limp body in his hands, “No, you can’t do this, you can’t be d-” _

“Bellamy, wake up!”

He jerks upright into a sitting position, gasping and shuddering. Sweat is beaded at his temple, running down his neck and darkening the collar of his shirt. The blankets are in a tangle around his legs, and he feels too hot and too cold at the same time, skin drawn too tight across his bones.

Clarke stands at the side of his bed, her hands on his shoulders, and he grabs one in a death grip. If it hurts her, she says nothing, just uses her free hand to pet back his unruly curls while his eyes rove over every piece of unmarred skin. She’s pale and lovely in the moonlight, and squeezes his hand and she murmurs sweet nothings to help him calm down.

“It’s okay, you’re alright now,” she coos, tucking a tendril of hair behind his ear. He fingers are cool on his cheeks, on his neck as they flutter over his racing pulse. “You’re alright.”

Bellamy drops his head to his chest, eyes screwed shut, and tries to breathe. In and out, in and out, nice and easy. Clarke leaves her hand on the side of his neck, thumbing over his pulse, while the other rubs soothing circles into the bone of his wrist.

“You’re okay,” she says again, and he swipes a hand across his face.

“No,” he rasps, finally opening his eyes and tipping his head back, “No I’m not.”

He lets go of her hand, and expects her to pull back as he stare up at the ceiling, starting to count. She does, but she doesn’t go far, choosing instead to remain hovering on the side of the bed, just a few breaths away.

Eventually his pulse slows, and the hand that holds his heart in a fist loosens, making it easier to breathe. He doesn’t hear his blood rushing in his ears, and he kicks off his blankets, letting his sweat soaked body cool off in the night air.

Clarke stays though, and he doesn’t know how long she stands there in silence as he distracts himself by counting the rivets on the ceiling.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, voice uncharacteristically small.

He shakes his head, biting back a huff of cynical laughter. “Fuck no,” he swears and her mouth thins a little bit more.

“Bellamy- it’s okay. I’m here for you, no matter what,” she tries, hesitantly stroking down his arm, “You can tell me anything.”

“I’m fine, Clarke,” he bites out, perhaps a bit rougher than he intended, and she wilts, causing him to curse under his breath. “Really,” he tries again, grabbing hold of her hand and interlacing their fingers, “I’m fine, I can deal with it. You should get some rest.”

She exhales harshly. “When are you going to realise that you don’t have to suffer in silence, huh? You can count on me. You can- you can trust me,” she says, eyes shining over with a glimmer of tears.

“This is my burden to bear, Clarke, not yours,” he tells her, “You don’t have to lose sleep over someone like me.”

“You ever think I’m already losing sleep?”

He looks up at her at that, and sees her jaw set stubbornly as she stare at him.

“You’re not the only one with nightmares, you know,” she whispers, sagging against the bedpost. “Every night I see them, all of them, asking me why I didn’t try harder, why I couldn’t save them and I- I don’t know how to answer that.”

His face softens and he says, “Clarke-”

She stops him with a shake of her head. “I always end up in the med bay after, sorting through supplies, repacking bandages. It’s menial, mindless work and it helps me to shut down. I was coming back from there when I heard you.”

“Clarke-” he tries again.

“You don’t have to tell me about it,” she says over it, “You don’t have to say anything at all if you don’t want to, but god Bellamy, just let me do this, just let me be there for you, okay?”

He swallows heavily, feeling something in chest squeeze, sending tingles all the way through his fingertips.

“Okay.”

Her face clears at that, and he gives her hand a squeeze where it’s still tangled with hers.

“Good.” She passes him the canteen he keeps nearby, “Drink.”

He does just that and Clarke looks over at him tentatively before seating herself on the edge of his bed. The mattress is already small, and he can feel the heat coming off her in waves, her scent slamming straight into him, all soap and herbs and something that’s just purely Clarke. His hand tingles in her grip, and he’s almost overcome with the urge to pull her closer, let her body lie flush along his as their legs tangle together.

Bellamy shakes his head like a dog, trying to rid himself of the thoughts. He hopes that in the limited light she can’t make out the dull flush that stains his cheeks.

“Thanks,” he says, and his voice is less gruff than before.

“You’re welcome.”

There’s that silence again, not exactly comfortable, but a far cry from awkward. She’s sitting ramrod straight, back against the headboard, while he’s slouched over, far more at ease. Their hands slipped out of each other’s when she took the canteen away and Bellamy lets his rest on his lap curled in a loose fist above the blanket.

“You all die in my dreams,” he says abruptly, and she turns her head to look at him, even as he refuses to meet her eye. “Raven, Monty, Octavia… you.” He picks at a stray thread in the blanket. “You all always die and it’s my fault. It’s always my fault and there’s nothing I can do but watch.” He finally looks up at her with a pathetic attempt at a smile, “Dreams really are based off reality, huh?”

“You’re a goddamn martyr, you know that?” she huffs, and it startles a laugh out of him. “We’ve all made bad decisions but nothing about  _ this  _ is your fault,” she grabs his hand, pressing it to her chest where he can feel her heartbeat, strong and steady through her threadbare t shirt. “And we’re all alive, despite what the ground has thrown at us, we’re still alive. So don’t you fucking get all doom and gloom on me about this, Bellamy, because we  _ will  _ survive this.”

He exhales sharply through his nose.

“You tryna take the whole inspirational speech thing away from me, Griffin?” he asks with a wry twist of his lips. She tips her head back and laughs, sharp and bright and far too short. 

“I wouldn’t dare,” she teases, and he lets himself smile, if only for just a moment.

Eventually, the moment has to come to an end, and she starts to pull away, face falling. “I should get back to my quarters.”

He wants to let her leave, wants to let these few precious minutes here end and become nothing more than a memory encased in soft moonlight and slow touches. But then he thinks back to his dream, thinks back to how he felt himself hold her in his arms as she died, and he can’t. He ceases up, tongue turning to ash in his mouth and before he knows it, his hand has shot out to grab hold of her wrist.

“Wait,” he says, and she stills at his touch, “Don’t go.”

God, he wants to be able to let her go, let her walk away, but he can’t, not when the sight of her leaving has him damn near hyperventilating all over again.

“Stay.”

He can still see her eyes, no longer blue and bright, but cloudy and dull, radiation burns causing her to melt in his arms, blood soaking into his skin. Bellamy squeezes his eyes shut, trying to rid himself of the image.

(He doesn’t know how and when he came to need her so fucking much, but he has, and frankly, it scares him.)

Clarke on her part, doesn’t hesitate, just gives him a nod and low, “Okay,” as he shifts more to the side while she kicks off her boots.

The bed isn’t big enough for two as she crawls in and settles herself. He lies flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and she does the same, her entire right side pressed into his left.

They’re both far too stiff, not wanting to cross the line that has already been blurred beyond recognition, but then Clarke caves with a huff, turning to face him and tucking her face into his neck. He immediately relaxes, and finds his arm around her waist, holding her close as he shift to lean more into her.

Their legs tangle and their breaths become one underneath the fraying fabric of his blanket. Her toes are cold when they press into his calves and his little jerk causes her to laugh, hot puffs of air against his neck. A hand creeps underneath her t shirt to rest against the small of her back, and she sighs, contented, wiggling closer to be with him.

Bellamy isn’t quite sure how long it takes for her breaths to even out, for her muscles to go slack and her face to smooth out. She remains pressed against him, little kitten snores the only sound to be heard throughout the whole room besides his own breathing, and he finds himself smiling as he relaxes into the mattress.

For once he’s not counting the spots on the ceiling to stay awake, but instead he let’s the sound of her breathing lull him to sleep, one that’s actually peaceful, and when he wakes the next morning, feeling well rested and content, Clarke is still there, tucked into his side.

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on [tumblr](http://hiddenpolkadots.tumblr.com/) if you love screaming


End file.
